


safe spaces / perfect places

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Frank Castle is a Father, M/M, Matt Murdock Is Terrible, Natasha Romanov Is Done With Both Of Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: When Matt ends up with an unexpected surprise, he really isn't sure who to call.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 9
Kudos: 97
Collections: Fratt Week





	safe spaces / perfect places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feathers_and_cigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/gifts).



> for Fratt Week 2020, and for [feathers_and_cigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes), my murder husband, who set this fic up by sending me only specific particular panels of a found baby comic and then encouraging me to do my own take. Ass.
> 
> the working title of this in GDocs was **stupid fratt baby fic** , okay.

Matt tells his phone to dial Frank. Voice commands maybe aren’t great, but he’s given the mobile this command often enough that it should be able to manage it before he loses his mind. He can hear the ringing and he hopes it’s calling the right contact - the ring is the same every time - but then he hears Frank’s guttural voice over speakerphone: _This is Pete Castiglione. Leave a message._

“Frank,” Matt stutters out, shifting the grip of the hand that isn’t holding the phone. “God, Frank, I need some help over here, I have a situation I can’t exactly resolve, uh, where are you?”

The phone clicks on him and offers the opportunity to re-record the message if he presses 1. Matt does not want to re-record. He wants a second pair of hands.

He raises his arms, holding the mostly-naked baby up in the air and grimacing. “I don’t know why you smell, but you smell. I’m not touching that diaper thing, I can’t see what’s wrong and I guarantee you’ll be even madder when I mess this shit up.”

The thing in his hands - the baby - makes a very dumb noise. Matt hates it. He doesn’t - at all - he has no fucking idea what to do with this. He tells his phone to call Jessica.

It’s her private number, not the business number, so Matt’s greeted by: _It’s Jessica Jones, don’t bullshit me, and I’m not going to call you back. Bye._

He leaves a detailed message for her, because JJ will think he’s funny and at least might respond with a useful fact or two she’s learnt from working with fucking Patsy. The truth is, he’s running out of options. Fuck. He’s confused and alone and he is still holding a fucking goddamn baby that smells like alleyway pee.

Matt dials Nat. It’s really unfair; he hasn’t reached out to her in weeks, although he’s certainly thought about it on his weaker nights, but he really isn’t sure what to say to her. He must be fucking lucky today, because she answers, voice low and drawling. “Привет. Зто Наташа.”

“Nat,” he says, because as good as his hearing is and as hard as he tries he has a problem pronouncing her Russian nomenclature. “Look, I need backup, pretty urgently, more or less now. It isn’t dangerous, it’s just ...messy. Can you show?”

It’s very absolutely unfair but Matt’s literally at the end of his rope and he feels very somewhat rewarded when Nat sighs and speaks English.

“I’ll be there in ten,” she says, and Matt’s relieved exhale must be audible, because she follows it up with: “I already hate you.”

“I deserve that,” Matt mutters into his phone, and then hangs up before he has to answer anything else.

———

“Murdock,” says Natasha Romanov.

“What?” Matt’s finally free, leaning up against the wall of his living room, with approximately none (0) of his hands having to even bother with management of the — thing.

“I was an Avenger,” Natasha tells him, aligned with the sound of her crouching down and setting the - baby - on the carpet. Her tone of voice makes Matt think she might actually be feeling more awkward about this than he is. “What makes you think I have any idea what to do with ... _that?_ ”

Matt sees his life flash before his inner eye. Oh, well, maybe Nat will choke him with her thighs. Not a bad way to go out, all things considered.

“Where did you even get ...it?” He hears Nat swallow. “Him? Her?”

“I don’t even _know,_ ” he says, trying not to sound as whiny as he feels. “The mother was getting arrested and just went like, _here,_ and…” His voice trails off and he makes a movement he hopes distinctly demonstrates the frantic way the child was shoved into his unwilling arms, rather than the growing panic at the bottom of his spine.

The baby starts crying. 

It’s _awful._ Full, piercing shrieks, as if the thing is being horribly murdered _right now_ , interspersed with the shuddering of its breath as it hauls in air and then _screams._ Matt’s overblown hearing is crippled by it, instantly. Funny, that: the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen incapacitated by a baby.

“Why is it doing that?” Nat doesn’t sound any better than he feels. Matt’s actually surprised she hasn’t tossed herself out the window already. 

“Do you think I know?” Matt shouts back. Every goddamned instinct and nerve in his body is responding in a panic, because the only time a thing makes that kind of noise is when a thing is _dying._

He gets down on his hands and knees and makes his way over to the baby. He kind of pats at its belly. “Hey, uh, it’s okay?”

Nat snorts, suddenly behind him. “And you’re a lawyer,” she says, and Matt picks up the dial tone over the sound of the world ending. “I’m calling Castle.”

“I already—” Matt starts, but apparently Frank will pick up the phone for _Natasha Romanov,_ but not for Matt Murdock. Dammit. 

Matt gropes for the baby again, pats at its belly. “It’s wet, Natasha,” he yells, trying to be heard in the mess. “How did it get _wet_ on its _stomach.”_

“Frank will be here in five,” Natasha says, and Matt can absolutely feel her sigh of relief.

———

Matt has the baby in his arms, again - wrapped in a towel, which he’s going to have to incinerate, because he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to remove this wonderful new _smell_ the baby has created - and Nat’s hands are hovering around, tucking in the towel and patting at its head and rearranging Matt’s hands as if she has any clue what she’s doing. The thing’s still crying, but it’s moved on from the ear-splitting screams to a full-blown sob. It’s actually making Matt feel almost guilty even though absolutely none of this is his fault.

The door opens. There’s about a ten-second moment where everyone freezes - including the baby - and Matt kind of wants to die.

Then Frank’s in motion, immediately, and he barks, “Support the _head_ , Murdock, Jesus,” and in an act of the Lord Himself, the baby is taken out of Matt’s arms.

Matt collapses to the floor in relief, until he remembers that he does in fact still want to look smart and attractive in front of Frank Castle, at which point he rearranges his limbs somewhat. “Hello, Frank.”

“The fuck, Murdock,” Frank tells him, and then turns and says, “Romanoff,” all friendly-like.

He can feel Nat’s smile; it’s the small one, so it’s genuine. She and Frank have worked together enough, Matt reminds himself, it shouldn’t be surprising. “Thanks for coming, Castle.”

“How the hell did you even—” Frank does something with the towel, and the scent permeates the air like it’s blowing in from a hurricane. “Jesus. I don’t suppose you have a fucking diaper?”

“Do I look like I have a diaper,” Matt says, from the floor, becoming aware that for whatever reason he’s losing face with Frank Castle for not having his swank apartment stocked with baby supplies.

“Right,” says Frank. There’s a pause and another wave of smell as he peeks under the towel again. “Okay. I am going to wash this baby, and then I’m going to make a list of things we need, and Natasha is going to go get them. And then Red here can explain what the hell has happened while we get everything set up.”

Matt’s barely listening, because: the crying has stopped. The baby’s sniffling, sort of, but whatever Frank’s doing seems to be working. Matt genuinely thanks the Lord.

———

“It is not going in my sink,” Matt says.

Frank makes this noise that Matt’s really only heard when they’re arguing on a rooftop and there are guns involved. “ _She_ needs a bath, Matt.”

“I have a _bathroom._ ” Matt can’t be sure what exactly is on the baby that smells so terrible, and he doesn’t want to know. His ears are still ringing from the absolute hollering earlier; now his nose is trying to retreat into his body like a testicle in the cold. He’s immediately sorry to have made that comparison.

“Your bathroom,” Frank says, the tone of his voice expressing that he is at the end of his patience, “has a lovely shower, Red. It’s a stall. It’s not a tub.” He takes a breath and Matt can sense him squaring his shoulders; when he speaks, it’s the Punisher, not Castle. “Therefore: sink.”

Matt’s been told he has a very trendy stainless steel sink with a great faucet. He will never be able to use it again without thinking of this moment.

“Fine,” Nat says, making the decision for him. “Please, get that smell off.”

“Go get Murdock’s body wash,” Frank orders, and the terribly fierce Black Widow rushes away to do his bidding.

Matt can hear the water running, can feel the warmth of it. He slinks a little closer to Frank. 

“Hold her,” Frank orders, and Matt panics.

“You said I was doing it all wrong, before,” he retorts, but Frank just sighs, shifts the baby, and grabs at Matt’s hand.

“One hand here,” he says, gently, guiding Matt’s hand into place beneath the baby’s arm and round its - _her_ \- torso. With Frank it isn’t demeaning or condescending; Matt has the sudden feeling he’d do the same with Natasha, this soft surety. “Other hand here. Got her?”

Matt’s holding the baby again. He’s not a fan, but he’s got his big hands under her soft arms and squishy body. His fingers almost touch in the back. “Got her.”

“Brace your nose,” Frank warns him, and then there’s the sound of plastic tearing.

The smell hits Matt like a punch to the nose. “Fuck,” he says, groaning, and he hears the sound of Frank pulling out the sink sprayer. He can feel the spray of it as Frank - hoses down - the baby.

“I will never cook in here again,” Matt announces, with the surety of a man who knows a lot of take-out numbers.

He can feel Frank glance at him, hear the rumble in his murmur as he says, low, “I bet you will.”

Of _course_ he made Frank Castle breakfast the next day. Matt’s a gentleman. A gentleman who really enjoys taking the Punisher apart with his hands and his mouth and his — well. He knows his way around his own kitchen, and he knows how to flirt over food, too.

“I like pancakes,” Frank continues, and Matt feels the blush creeping up on his own cheeks. He breathes deeply to try to manage it, and gets another lungful of Baby’s Diaper Surprise. He tries not to cough, and mostly succeeds.

“I could be convinced,” he says back, low and teasing, and of course that’s when Nat comes back.

“Here you go, boys,” she says cheerfully. He can hear in her voice that she’s suspicious - they haven’t told anybody about the thing they’re doing, mainly because they aren’t even sure yet what that thing is - but that she’s also, surprisingly… relieved? _Shit,_ Matt thinks in panic. _Did she think this was a booty call. Did she come over for sex and get handed a baby?_ He’s going to die. Natasha Romanov is going to kill him in her sleep.

Frank does nothing except open up the body wash and slick up his hands. “Just keep holding her,” he says to Matt, calm and sure, as he starts to wash the poor child with his soapy hands.

She giggles, and Matt can feel the way Frank warms up and relaxes at it, smiling back. It’s a side of him Matt has suspected exists but has never seen, because he always fucking forgets that Frank was a _father._

———

Frank has shown him how to properly hold the baby. Her head’s supported, her little chin tucked over his shoulder; Matt has hands at the back of her head and on her back, too, her little arms and legs attempting to wrap around him. He can hear her breathing. She’s calmed down, occasionally making dumb baby noises almost directly into his ear. 

“Size Two diapers,” Frank is saying, and he can hear the scratchy pen Natasha’s using in her notebook. “Formula — it’s all good, honestly, just get the one on sale. Some goddamn baby blankets: Murdock has nice shit, sure, but it’s not a fuckin’ baby blanket. Bottles and nipples, no, don’t laugh, Matt. Here’s the size you want. We have that, we can manage for a few days.”

Matt continues to sway his body, rocking the baby back and forth. It’s like a balance exercise, the added weight over his shoulder something that can’t be moved; he tracks the way the soles of his feet rearrange themselves on the ground, the way his hearing readjusts to a space beyond the baby’s snorting.

“Here, this should do it,” says Frank. Matt hears the familiar peeling of bills, and he wants to argue, but he’s not going to say a single solitary thing if the baby is comfortable. He’ll stick a couple hundy in Frank’s waistband before he leaves, like a tip. A sexy tip. God, he needs to stop his brain from making all these euphemisms.

The baby sighs. It’s probably cute. To someone like Foggy, maybe, who still risks his life in the Hell’s Kitchen streets to pet dogs. Maybe even Frank, who has been through this and seems to be able to tolerate the baby better than Matt and Nat combined. Matt just wants it to fall asleep so he can flirt with Frank before Nat comes back.

“Good look on you, Red.”

Matt spasms. Thankfully the baby just makes one of her baby noises and settles back in. “It better not,” he tells Frank. “I am so very not interested.”

“Hey,” Frank says, and Matt can hear him holding up his palms in a calming motion. “It’s a compliment. Lotta things look good on you.”

Oh. That’s much better. “Freaks me out,” Matt admits, because it’s Frank. “I can do a lot of things. Not sure I could actually take care of something this…”

“Small?”

“Delicate,” Matt breathes. He can hear her heartbeat slowing. He doesn’t like anything about this, but he has to admit it’s a bit satisfying to be able to feel her falling asleep on him. That’s comforting, in a weird way. As if his heart rate is trying to slow to match hers. 

Frank’s is dropping as well, and Matt can feel the warmth of his body only a few steps away. “Want me to take her?”

“Yes,” says Matt. She’s alright at the moment but he suddenly really wants to have his hands and all of his senses free. He’s feeling vulnerable for some reason. “Go ahead.”

Frank gently scoops her off of Matt’s shoulder. He lets his hands brush over Matt’s shirt, first, a gentle friendly gesture, the touch lingering as he lifts her off. He listens to Frank arranging her in his arms. She’s wrapped up in the already-contaminated towel for now, until Nat gets back with the diapers.

“Alright,” Frank says. “What the fuck happened?”

Matt sighs. He takes his bearings, and walks around Frank to head towards the couch; he presses the palm of his hand in the small of Frank’s back for a moment, as an invitation, and is pleased when Frank follows him.

“I had just left the office,” he says. “And there was a woman waiting for me. With--” He gestures at the baby in Frank’s arms. “She wanted to talk about something, but she was so worked up I could barely understand her. So I followed her to the subway station, and there were some cops that just - grabbed her - and she just _shoved_ this baby at me and I had no idea what to do and I couldn’t just _drop_ her, Frank.”

Frank chuckles. “No, of course not. So what was up with the mother?”

Matt shrugs. “It was something about a parking ticket gone very wrong, I think? Easy enough thing but the cops had decided to make her pay?” He swallows, and then says very delicately, in his best lawyer voice: “I would not be surprised if you were holding a baby of color right now.”

The chuckle gets broader, fonder. “You’re not wrong, Red.”

“I really didn’t know what to do but… It’s a _baby._ ” Matt can’t really explain it, the way he has absolutely no fucking idea what to do with a child and isn’t interested in learning at all, but there had been a sudden responsibility in his hands and maybe he beats up people on a nightly basis but he isn’t a _monster_. 

“You did the right thing,” says the Punisher, and it really shouldn’t mean as much, but it does.

“Thanks for the help,” Matt says, and then grins and adds: “Even if you didn’t pick up when I called.”

Frank snorts. “Was busy. Figured it was a booty call. Now, Natasha? She scares me.”

“I don’t?” Matt pouts in his general direction. 

He can feel Frank’s grin grow on his face. “I’ll always be a little afraid of you, Murdock,” he says, and it’s shockingly affectionate and almost seductive and Matt’s really not ready to hear it. It sort of lands in his chest like he’s been punched, a little, and a little bit not.

“Right,” he says, “well, she’s asleep, right?” He waggles his eyebrows, waiting for Frank’s fond laugh. “We should make out before Nat gets back.”

“Murdock,” Frank says, sounding delighted. “There’s a baby here. Don’t be a bad influence.”

———

Matt owns a basket. He discovers this as Natasha hoists herself onto his counter and pulls it down from on top of his cabinets. Frank grins at him, and Matt wonders how the hell he’s supposed to know there’s a basket up there. It isn’t the kind of thing his senses really throw at him, to be honest; the background noise of . He wonders who put it there. Foggy? Karen? Either one of them might have thought it funny.

Frank’s over on Matt’s floor, using the ruined towel to protect his floor as he changes the beast’s diaper. Nat brought a pack of, like, forty goddamn diapers, and that isn’t at all cool with Matt — he will be happy to donate them to the mother, really, whenever he can track her down to return the fucking baby.

“Here,” Frank says, placing something soft - and new-smelling - into the basket that Nat has found. Matt’s just listening at this point, the edges of his senses all on edge, unsure where to step in; he lets Nat and Frank arrange the basket with some towels, and some blankets, and then they settle the sleeping baby into the nest. Matt’s sharp hearing lets him track as they set the sleeping baby into fresh, soft linens, within the confines of this magical basket that Matt can’t quite imagine in his mind’s eye, but seems to suit the baby just fine. His absolutely contaminated towel is tossed into a far corner; Matt won’t be able to ignore the smell past this evening, but it lets him pretend it doesn’t exist for a few prime hours. 

Natasha leaves. Matt can’t be imagining the relief in her voice, that tone that’s mostly due to increasing distance between her and the baby — but he thinks he’s also hearing the relief of someone rearranging their own situation in the aftermath of a complicated relationship. He and Nat hadn’t ever been anything more than satisfying fun, but as satisfying fun they had been _incredible;_ he feels bad, for a moment, for the pressure Nat might have felt that he didn’t even mean to put on her. He’ll send her some really good scotch in a week or two — especially because she’s going back to Barton’s, or her safehole, or wherever, and Frank’s still on the couch.

The basket containing the fucking baby is stuck between them, and as Matt extends fingers to figure out the situation, he starts to really understand the phrase about being wrapped in swaddling clothes. Now that - she - is tucked into the curve of the basket with an appropriate set of layers, he can absolutely understand how much more comfortable she is. Warm, dry, and contained, he can hear her blood pressure relaxing; her breathing slowing; her heart rate stabilizing. For him, it’s soothing: listening to a tiny loud body that appreciates being bound up and tucked in with a bunch of blankets. He can, somehow, tell that the inability to move her arms - since they’re wrapped up tight - is calming, rather than disturbing.

Matt’s absolutely and horribly against babies and children, to the extent that he can avoid them without, you know, having to consider dropping one onto the ground and damaging it beyond comprehension. Given his preference, he’d rather not have to deal with any individual under the age of 18 (his brain says 18; his subconscious is screaming, 25) and children this young are usually a _very hard no_ — and yet, here’s the thing: It’s good for him to know that if tiny children come within the range of his - violence? Reputation? Repercussions? He really isn’t even sure how on earth he ended up with this baby in the first place - anyway, it’s good to know that even the safest, calmest level of his lifestyle won’t destroy a baby’s life within four hours.

He really hadn’t meant to have this. At all. He doesn’t _want it._ But having it forced on him, well, he has to admit that there’s something soothing about knowing a baby can sleep in the corner of his living room, and that he’ll only find it settling, rhythmic, a background pulse to listen to and build into his own heartbeat. It’s a subtle note, gently and slowly beating into the foundation of his apartment; he only realizes it when he realizes he’s tapped these new instruments in, assigning them a beat and a task to the relentless rhythm he feels every day, 

“Frank,” he whispers, keeping it loud and dramatic so that Frank will hear it even if he’s sleeping. “Hey, Frank.”

“Jesus, Red.” Frank’s voice is a bit ragged, but not in the way that tells Matt he’s so far done there’s no chance for anything else. “I took care of your goddamn baby. You’re the idiot who ended up with a life depending on you — and yes, fuckbrain, I know it isn’t your fault, but you _did._ ” Frank chuckles, and it’s a little bit ridiculous. “You goddamn mess.”

“Oh,” Matt says, at a level of offense he really doesn’t feel. “I am not, Castle.”

Frank snorts again. It’s honestly one of the most charming sounds Matt has ever heard: Frank Castle plays this impossible fortress, an immovable object, but once you’ve chipped away at that surface every noise is a jewel tone ringing on a stone bell, deep and beautiful.

“You did a good thing,” Castle starts, and his voice is deep and rich in a way Matt only relates with his own bedroom, tone dripping with what he hears as want. “Now she’s safe, and she’s asleep. And you called me over here.”

“Nat did,” Matt says, but he can’t control his own throat right now, and the words flow out with a lot more want attached to them than he might have wanted.

“As long as she sleeps,” Frank murmurs, but it’s this needy low tone that strikes at every single one of Matt’s nerves and sets them all singing in his mind.

“What are you saying, Castle,” Matt says, even as he moves to pick up the basket - gently, so gently - and tuck her into the corner of the room. He waits, standing, listening to her reaction; it’s so soothing. Why is it so soothing? Her heartbeat quickens slightly for the few moments when Matt sets her down - near the register, so she’s getting as much heat as she wants - and then she simply sighs, breathing the whole way in and then out again.

He listens to her heartbeat slowing as he hears Frank’s heartbeat picking up; “Look, there’s a baby sleeping here,” he manages to say, before he hears Frank shifting on the couch, moving his weight towards the middle so that he’ll be even closer to Matt when Matt sits down. Some day, Matt will remind Frank that he can feel these ‘subtle’ little moves; he’ll ask what they mean. For now, though … Matt sits down. 

Frank leans into him, pretending it’s Matt’s weight on the couch dragging him in, but he must realize that it’s as unsubtle an act as it seems because he’s chuckling by the time he presses his mouth against Matt’s. As always, the sensation of Frank Castle’s lips end up overwhelming for a brief few seconds: it’s the heat of it, the way Frank’s slow-steady heart speeds up, the way Frank deliberately keeps his breathing slow as if he wants to pretend Matt can’t hear it; the way he can hear the blood rushing through Frank’s fingers as those broad, callused, brilliant hands reach out to finally touch Matt’s face.

But he lets himself be drawn in, because - to be honest - that’s what he wants, anyway: to be pulled into Frank’s solid orbit; to be allowed and able to rest his palms across Frank’s pecs; to be tugged into Frank’s lap, let his legs splay open as he straddles Frank, breathing hard and rough.

Matt tips back in, though, having achieved a very reliable balance across Frank’s lap; he claims Frank’s mouth with his own and then _works_ at it, sucking at lip and space, tongue working fervently against Frank’s, attempting to dominate. To Matt’s surprise, Frank reaches out, those giant palms gripping at Matt’s hipbones until they’re — realigned, oh _hell,_ and Matt’s suddenly grinding hot and kind of wet against Frank’s own hard cock and well, hells, why don’t they just start here _every time._

Frank’s hands climb up Matt’s spine until one’s in his hair and the other one on his lower back, pulling in until the grinding is close and _filthy._ “Look, Red,” Frank breathes into his neck, and Matt’s hands - far more reactive than proactive in the moment - tighten where they’re interlaced around the back of Frank’s neck. “I realize kids scare you shitless - I mean, I get it - but God, Red.”

Frank’s teeth scrape against the column of Matt’s throat, and then move to bite at the tendon of his shoulder. Matt realizes his hands have traced their way down Frank’s broad chest and are sitting at the waistband of his jeans. 

“Look, Murdock, Jesus,” Frank breathes into his collarbone, before he bites into the muscle high up on Matt’s pec, which makes him groan and shiver. “Like only your stupid, noble ass would accidentally take in a baby, not even knowing how to take care of it, because it’s the fucking _right thing to do.”_

“I literally didn’t have enough time to think about it,” Matt tells him, even as he undoes the button on Frank’s jeans, mainly because he’s just a little bit uncomfortable with Frank giving him this credit when he really had just been a pair of arms at the right time. “It just happened.” 

Frank doesn’t seem to see this as a deterrent; instead, he drops his heavy hands down to the drawn tie at the waistband of his sweats. “That’s even better, though, don’t you get it?” He tugs Matt closer just by the waist of his pants, and then manages to work both hands down beneath that boundary until both wide hands are spread open over the highest arch of Matt’s thighs. Frank’s thumbs work the seam where thigh meets crotch and it feels textured, heady. “It’s even better that way, Red, for fuck’s sake. Stop arguing and touch me.”

Matt hates to give in and he’s also ridiculously hard with just those indirect caresses, so he peels open the fly of Frank’s jeans and works a hand beneath what feel like standard cotton boxers. They’re probably plaid; Matt has this ridiculous assumption that Frank Castle wears terrible plaid boxers and it only makes him want to tear them off. Instead he wraps a hand around that velvet-hard cock and strokes it - top down and then up again - and swallows the sound Frank makes into his lungs, because it’s delicious.

“Yes,” says Frank, and those big thick hands pull Matt up until he’s kneeling, breathing heavily, while Frank tugs his jeans and briefs down his thighs as far as they can go. To his surprise Frank arches his spine until he can sink down, tonguing at Matt’s cock like a goddamned tease before he pulls up and wraps a hand around Matt, his lips now working under Matt’s jaw. 

Matt ends up making a sound he didn’t give himself permission to make, which is ridiculous, except that Frank’s hand has callouses and ridges that work along Matt’s cock - which is leaking like a sieve - so slick and tight that Matt doesn’t have the residual strength to prevent the noises he usually makes.

He himself slicks his fist up on the precome Frank’s spouting, then flutters his individual fingers while wrapping his whole hand around Frank, his grip slipping down to the root and then back up. Frank makes a noise that’s similar to how Matt feels in his head, and then, they’re mostly lost.

It’s a ridiculous mess: both of them working their hands on each other, gasping, their mouths uncovering new ground between them, until Frank groans and shudders and comes all over Matt’s hand and his own stomach - his own stupid boxers - and then uses that as an excuse to strip Matt’s cock slick and wanting until Matt has to bow over Frank, face in his shoulder, and fucking stammers out his own orgasm into Frank’s tight demanding fist.

They don’t move. It could be a few minutes or a few hours; Matt isn’t sure. Eventually, he shifts, as his brain catches up with him and realizes he should offer Frank something far more comfortable. Frank came here, took care of the - goddamned - fucking _baby_ \- and then took care of Matt, stripping him of his usual defenses. At the very least, he owes Frank a pair of sweatpants. 

But Frank’s hands remain as broad and grounding on Matt’s body after as they were before. “Come on, Murdock,” Frank groans, and Matt follows as best he can, tugging his own sweats up to cover the, well, mess. “We need to sleep. C’mon, bedtime.”

Matt lets his own hands wrap around Frank’s tender places and tugs him to bed. Before they both collapse, he offers Frank a towel, and a clean pair of sweats. 

“Oh, Red,” Frank says, and as Matt listens closer to the noises he realizes Frank’s wiping himself and then tossing all of his clothing on the ground. “C’mon, look. I’m gonna hold you, and you’re probably going to like it.”

Halfway through kicking off his pants - which is a good few moments before he realizes what he’s doing - Matt smiles fiercely. He curls himself up to Frank, bare and naked, and Frank’s thick arms wrap around him to the point where Matt’s senses are overwhelmed; he has to press his mouth against Frank’s neck to listen to his pulse, his heartbeat throbbing against Matt’s tongue. 

“That’s it,” says Frank, and Matt melts in a very embarrassing way. “Just relax.”


End file.
